


angry, and half in love with her

by theowlinsomniac



Category: The Killing
Genre: F/M, drabble set in s3 right after the attempted kiss, honestly the worst thing i have ever written, spoilers for s1-s3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theowlinsomniac/pseuds/theowlinsomniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away." - F. Scott Fitzgerald</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes he would reach for her, buckle in his own thoughts and retreat. He would call back his wandering hand or curious foot to his own space. To keep her safe within her own world without popping the bubble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	angry, and half in love with her

It was as if they had always known that this would happen. Perhaps that was why they had never gotten too close, had always strayed at the edge of awkward, cast their anchors at standoffish. When he put his hand on her quivering back at the docks, watched her crumble under his selfish grip, there was nothing short of fireworks. They both felt it, though Linden's senses were numbed by adrenaline and pain, and the only thing Holder could think about was how warm she was under his fingertips, how brave she was just moments before. He’d thought there was a chance he may never get to even look at her again, let alone place a single, comforting hand on her shoulder. 

At first he had thought it was a Linden thing. Which, evidently, it was. The girl didn’t like being touched, especially by men that were outside of her circle of trust. A circle that only seemed to include Jack. Period. Her cautious eyes and gestures had been warning signs to him from day one. And the way she always seemed to seep into herself when she tipped her emotional scale sealed the deal. So Holder wouldn’t touch her, or get too close to crowd her space. (Sometimes he would reach for her, buckle in his own thoughts and retreat. He would call back his wandering hand or curious foot to his own space. To keep her safe within her own world without popping the bubble.)

He was a dark room and she was claustrophobic, and that was okay. 

Until the distance (once a mile, then a desk, then a carseat console, then a cigarette box) was closing way too fast and Holder can't feel his heart in his chest as she says something he can't quite hear over the roaring of blood in his ears. 

The feel of her calloused hand on his shoulder is almost electric. Maybe it’s because this contact has been a long time coming. Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t slept and can barely hear himself think. But he doesn’t think, not really. He just leans in and lets his eyes go half-lidded because this is what he wants. She’s everything he’s ever needed and _how was he so blind to see that before_? 

Though suddenly his heart sinks. His bottom lip brushes her nose as she tilts her head away, her forehead bumps his cheek, her hand slides quickly from his back to the side of his leg, pushing him away. Before he can open his eyes to look at her her fist is at his shoulder, restraining him from any other rash decisions. Her hand pats him awkwardly at the knee, because she’s not sure where else to put it. In her eyes he sees a flash of something he can’t recognize. He hopes it’s regret, but at best, it’s fear. Or worse. Anger.

Her movements are hesitant, delicate. Everything he thought she was when he first met her. It’s like she wanted to give in, but resisted because she knew exactly what he was thinking, what he wanted to do. He was always easy to read, to her. He was a pane of glass and she was murky waters. She built a home inside her mind, and just now she locked the door. He pulls his head back, eyes looking everywhere except to her. 

There was a knife in his chest and she just pulled it out. He bleeds all over the couch, the carpet, until the entire apartment is stale with his blood, until the heaviness in his chest stops being a stone when it becomes a barbell. 

“I’m sorry--” 

“It’s okay.” 

_ But it’s not, and it won’t ever be.  _

He buries his face in his hands. This is all sorts of fucked up and he knows it. She knows it. 

Perhaps they hadn’t been this close before because they knew something like this would happen. 

That Holder would give into the magnetic pull that Linden didn’t seem to feel. He can’t even look at her as he feels the sobs begin to wrack his body. Her gentle fingers trace a nervous pattern on his shoulder blade. It’s too light, too uncaring for what her voice depicts. She's too scared for contact. Too shaken to risk another attack. She says soothing words, dropping her hand from his back. (Because it does no good. He’s not a child, he needs other things, other intimacies to keep his mind preoccupied. And she just made herself extremely unavailable.)

And he cries. He cries because Bullet is dead and it was _his fault._ He cries because a life was stifled and he could have prevented it. He cries because there’s nothing he can do- he’s failed again. He cries because Linden is the only one he wants to talk to, to hold, and he’s just fucked it all up in one misguided move.

This time, maybe _he's_ the Bad Guy.

Her thumb brushes his arm before she sits back into the couch. She’s tired too.  For different reasons, but tired all the same. 

After a few minutes of sitting, he thinks it’s better like this. 

To keep her an arm’s length away. 

He closes his eyes and wishes he could take it all back, but by the time he’s done wishing, her weight has lifted off the couch and she’s slipping out the door. 


End file.
